She Creeps

by Alex Hairston

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

In this suspenseful, romantic thriller, one woman longs to feel alive--in every possible way. . . You Live, You Love-- Naomi Gaffney was only eight-years-old the day they found her momma's body. Then the police took her daddy away. Twenty-one years later, Naomi's father remains in jail, and she's still not sure if he's guilty of a crime of passion, or an innocent victim of southern justice. In fact, there isn't much Naomi is sure about these days. . . And If You're Smart, You Learn. . . Raised by a cruel aunt, Naomi married young to escape her bitter household. But all she got was more heartache. She knows she's too smart and pretty to waste away in a dead small town. She aches to feel alive again. Her childhood taught her that adultery can be deadly, but when a handsome young man offers her everything she craves, Naomi finds that some lessons are more easily learned than others. . . "A captivating tale that is sure to make readers think about the things they take for granted in relationships." -- The Rawsistaz Reviewers

Release date: January 1, 2011

Publisher: Dafina

Print pages: 316

Sample

To my readers: I’m back and ready to take my career to the next level. Having my third novel published is an incredible blessing. There aren’t any words to truly express how this makes me feel. I was happy with one novel and now I’m working on my fourth … God is so good! I’m sure somebody knows what I’m talking about. Wow!!! My readers mean the world to me. Thanks so much for purchasing my first two novels Love Don’t Come Easy and If Only You Knew. I appreciate the love you’ve shown by posting my name and titles on myspace.com, message boards, and everywhere else on the Internet. Hopefully after reading this book, my new readers will love me just as much or even more than my wonderful returning readers … thanks for being so patient and for your continued support. Checkout my website www.alexhairston.com and please e-mail your comments to me at [email protected]. I’d love to hear from you.

I’d like to thank Kim (my beautiful wife and #1 sample reader) for loving and inspiring me the way you do…. I’m still in love with you. I can’t thank you enough for our wonderful kids, Terence, Terell and Alexis (my lil’ basketball star) → PAW POWER GFS YOU KNOW!!!

Special thanks to my parents, Alex Sr. and Marie, Grandma (Betty), my siblings, Darryl, Chaz, Nokie and Erica (my #2 sample reader). Thanks to Cindy, Phillip, Decquetta and Quaisha.☺ I can’t forget two of my favorite people in the world, Athena and Kiera.

I’d like to thank my agent/publicist Felicia Polk for all of her advice and hard work … we’re almost there.

To my new editor, Selena James, you’re off to a great start. I look forward to a bright and productive future working with you. Extra special thanks to everyone at Kensington Publishing Corp. for believing in me and making this happen.

LUV4 Book clubs: R.A.W. Sistaz, APOOO, Brown Suga Sistas with Books, Minds in Motion, Ebony Eyes, Sisters of Literary Excellence, DIVA, PSSST, Nubian Sistas and so many more.

I’m excited about the release of She Creeps. This is a unique and extraordinary story that I’ve been dying to write for a long time. I started writing this story in the third person, but Naomi’s voice was so strong and passionate that I knew her story had to be told in the first person. Writing from the female perspective is always funny, challenging and at times uncomfortable.☺ Regardless of what perspective I write from, I’ll try to keep things fresh and interesting. Thank you so much for supporting my dream. Enjoy!!!

Lots of Love,

Alex

I wanted to die the day they found Momma’s body. It was midsummer, hot and muggy. I was eight years old and my sister, Serena, was only seven years old. We couldn’t really understand what was going on. Momma was only missing for a day, and then the next thing I knew, most of our neighbors were standing around outside of our house trying to find out what had happened to that pretty white woman who was married to the big, mean, black policeman. They were talking about my daddy. He was one of the most hated men in Eden, North Carolina. That never bothered him none, but it sure did bother me.

The night before they found Momma’s body, I was awakened by the sounds of adult laughter. Somebody was having a good ole time. I could hear Momma tiptoeing around and giggling like she’d had a few drinks. It was late, but my daddy was still at work. He was dedicated to his job and to taking good care of his family. Momma knew she was wrong because she had another man in our house. Brothas in Eden admired her beauty and fondness for black men. Most white men and a lot of black women despised her for that reason. I think that’s why Daddy didn’t allow her to work. He figured that keeping Momma at home was the best and safest place for her to be.

I couldn’t figure out who was in our house that night, but I knew it wasn’t my daddy. His first rule was that no man was to be in his house around his wife and daughters, especially if he wasn’t at home.

Back then, Serena and I shared a bedroom. Disney was the theme of our room, all about innocence and imagery. Our bookshelves were lined with colorful children’s books. We couldn’t get enough of stories like Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. We played and slept in a bright and cheerful environment. Mickey, Minnie, Donald, and Goofy were on everything from our bedspreads, curtains, and lamps down to our little throw rugs. Momma kept our bedroom neat and our clothes and linen smelling April fresh. One of my favorite things back then was a huge poster of the Magic Kingdom’s castle along with all of the Disney characters that hung on our wall.

Serena was sound asleep, but I was wide awake listening to every little sound. That old house had the noisiest loose floorboards. They were like sensors, letting us know who was walking in what area of the house. Our bedroom door was closed, but from my bed I heard footsteps moving toward the kitchen and then out the back door. I heard the wooden screen door slam. Wham! It startled me, made me sit up in my bed, because it was such a disturbing sound to hear at that time of night. I assumed it was Momma’s mystery man making a quick exit.

Tires screeched as a car sped off down the road. A few minutes later the phone on our kitchen wall rang twice, but no one was there to answer. Our neighbor’s dog started howling. That was the third night in a row that dog made that disturbing sound. Folks ‘round here said that a dog howling in the middle of the night was a sure sign of death.

The next thing I remembered was hearing my daddy’s car pull into our driveway and his tires rolling over the gravel, making that familiar grinding sound. His car door slammed, his keys jingled, and then he let out his famous smoker’s cough. He entered through the front door and within minutes he must have noticed that the back door was open. I could hear his footsteps move toward the back door.

I imagined him gripping the handle of his pistol as he called for Momma. His raspy southern baritone voice called out, “Barbara! Hey, Barbara, you out there?”

No answer. The sound of crickets chirping in three distinctively different tones filled the night air. I could feel the tension thicken. I slowly laid my head back down on my pillow.

Daddy asked himself, “What the hell is going on?”

Next he checked his bedroom and it was obvious that Momma was gone. Then he checked on me and Serena. She was still sound asleep. Although I was wide awake, I pretended to be asleep. I was raised to stay in a child’s place, out of grown folks’ business, so naturally I did as I was taught. Somebody had to respect my daddy’s wishes. I could sense his frustration when he closed our bedroom door. His emotions probably shifted back and forth a million times, trying to figure out what was going on. I’m not sure what happened after that because all that pretending and the darkness of my bedroom put me right to sleep.

The next morning my daddy woke me and Serena and took us for a ride. We drove all over Eden and half of Rockingham County that morning. I guess we were supposed to be looking for Momma. What appeared to be a beautiful day soon took a turn for the worse, becoming the most horrific day of my life. When we came home later that day, the police were there and so were a lot of our friends and family. And I can’t forget the nosy neighbors. People come out in droves when something bad happens.

At first no one said a word—I just saw a bunch of tears and angry faces. I sensed that something bad had happened. I started to get sick to my stomach. My white grandparents, the ones who disowned Momma, the ones who refused to claim me and Serena, the ones who I hadn’t seen in God only knows how long, were there yelling obscenities at my daddy. I heard one of the officers tell Daddy that they had found Momma’s body. Instantly a powerful chill came over me. I was old enough to know that when someone said body, they were referring to a dead person. There was no way a woman that young and beautiful could be dead. I was in a state of shock and disbelief. I wanted to know exactly what happened to her, but no one would tell me. I was a child and had already heard too much. I thought maybe Momma could have been seriously injured and needed to go to the hospital, but not dead. Then I heard the word murdered. At that point I knew that Momma would never come home again, and my little heart was hurt in the worst way imaginable. A feeling of pain and emptiness came over me. The woman who had given birth and loved me all of my life was gone forever. Just thinking about this makes me cry. I was eight years old then and I’m twenty-nine now. Even to this day I’ve never been able to find the exact words to describe how I felt at that moment. The feeling is indescribable.

All I could do was yell out, “Don’t say that! I want my momma! Where is she?”

My aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbors tried to comfort me and Serena. Family members are usually drawn closer together during a tragedy, but not my dysfunctional family. My grandparents were too busy fussing and stirring up confusion to acknowledge the fact that me and my sister were scared to death and hurting. For a moment Serena seemed almost oblivious to what was going on. She cried mostly because I was crying. Slowly she began to realize that Momma was really gone. I turned to my daddy for answers, but he couldn’t tell me anything because the police were taking him away. He was a policeman, too, and it was strange seeing him get arrested. I refused to believe that my hero could have committed such a heinous crime, especially against my momma. I overheard one of my neighbors say that two little boys, Michael and Brandon, found Momma’s nude body in a ditch stuffed halfway in a storm drain. She had been stabbed to death.

A few people around me including my angry white grandparents started saying that my daddy killed Momma.

My granddaddy said, “He did it. Frank killed her. I know he did. He’s crazy enough to do something like that.” He squinted his eyes, pointed directly at Daddy, and in a very hateful tone, said, “That’s why I never wanted Barbara to marry that nigger, because I knew eventually something like this would happen.”

I was the daughter of one of the most hated men in our community. Daddy was partly to blame. He never took the time to get to know the people in our community and vice versa. He always fussed about people staring at him and Momma. Daddy raised hell about simple things like kids being on his property. Seeing him with a gun, a badge, and his infamous mirrored sunglasses was a big turn-off for most people. It’s hard to trust a man when you can’t even see his eyes. I had seen his eyes and had known about his kind ways, but no matter what I thought, they always saw him as the bad guy. He was a black policeman. To make matters worse, my daddy was the only black policeman in Eden at that time. He was married to a white woman and now he was an accused murderer. He was one of the most hated men in Eden.

Although our neighbors hated my daddy, some of them began to defend him. Not because they believed in his innocence, but mainly because my angry white granddaddy turned Momma’s murder into a racial incident. A few minutes later the media arrived, local television and newspaper reporters. This made the scene more dramatic than ever.

As his fellow white policemen took him away, Daddy cried out, “You can’t do this to me. I swear, I didn’t do anything! I didn’t kill my wife! Let me go! I want my daughters!”

I’ll never forget the look of desperation in his eyes. I’d never seen my daddy like that. For the first time, he seemed helpless. I jumped up and down and screamed, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” Then I yelled at the white policeman, “Let him go! Pleeease, let my daddy go!”

A riot nearly broke out in front of our house, but somehow my daddy was able to defuse the situation a little by reassuring everyone that he’d be all right. Mostly everyone calmed down, but not me. No matter what I did or said, they still took him to jail. Daddy went peacefully and I think people respected that. Others saw it as an admission of guilt. Serena and I cried our little hearts out. I think we both wanted to curl up and die because we had no one and nowhere to run to. At that moment the world seemed so small. I was suffocating and then reality set in. All of a sudden the world went from being so small to becoming an enormous place, way too large for two little girls without parents. That’s when Momma Pearl stepped in. She’s our daddy’s oldest sister, a real ornery, raging-bull type when she wanted to be. Other times she was a self-proclaimed prophet. This was probably the ugliest and cruelest woman who ever set foot on God’s green earth. Sometimes I think Serena and I would have been better off going to a foster home instead of living with my aunt because of the way we were mistreated. But at least Serena and I were together.

Momma Pearl and her sister, Clarissa, raised us. We had a strict upbringing. Serena and I called them King Kong and Mighty Joe Young. They were two devils dressed in white garb, head-wraps and all. Aunt Clarissa never hit or ridiculed me and Serena like Momma Pearl did, but she was just as bad because she was well aware of the cruelty her sister was putting us through and did nothing to stop it.

Aunt Clarissa—or Sister Clarissa, as the church folks called her—moved in after Momma Pearl and her husband Henry separated. Uncle Henry was a good man, always had a smile and a kind word. He was a tall, handsome light-brown-skinned man. Uncle Henry was country, though, the kind of man who would wear a belt and suspenders at the same time. That was always a funny sight. People used to call him a jackleg preacher, a real Jim Jones in the making. I never paid that much attention. He was the preachingest man I’ve ever known, and most of all he was really kind to me and Serena. He never actually said it, but we knew he loved us. The last I heard Uncle Henry moved up north somewhere and became a storefront preacher. When he left things really went downhill, mostly because Momma Pearl became ordained and took over his church, Eden Light Undenominational Church of Faith. She’s still alive and going strong at fifty-four, leading her cult of followers to hell. A woman like that can’t teach anything except pure evil.

Serena and I lived in Momma Pearl’s big, old, dirty country house in Blue Creek until I got married shortly after graduating from Morehead High School. When I moved I took Serena along with me. There was no way I was leaving my sister in that house with Momma Pearl to suffer alone. It was far from a happy home, but it was home. No home sweet home, more like home bittersweet home. That old house always smelled like stale bacon grease—that smell lingered and lingered forever. I could even smell it in my clothes and linen. I can still see that greasy stove with the big blue Crisco can filled with bacon grease. Momma Pearl fried chicken and fish in that same old nasty bacon grease. The thought of it still nauseates me. She claimed that she loved us and she showed it every day by whipping and calling us poor white trash or little wannabe-niggers. That was her special way of breaking us down. She was like the black version of Cinderella’s evil stepmother, except we were family, her own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t have treated a dog like she treated us. To this day I don’t know why she hated us so much.

In a way I think my sister and I both died the day they found Momma’s body. Not in a physical sense, but a major part of us went with her. There is of course a part of her that lives in us. I honestly feel her spirit inside of me, the good and the bad. She wasn’t a perfect woman, but she was our momma.

From my childhood experiences, I learned humility, to expect the unexpected, to never take people for granted, and most of all, that adultery is a bad thing. Let’s just say that some lessons are easier learned then others.

I was born right here in Eden at Morehead Memorial Hospital. Born in May—the thirtieth, to be exact. That makes me a Gemini. My astrological sign reflects my dual personality. Most of the time I’m strong, but I do have my weak moments. I’ve lived in Eden all my life, but I sure don’t wanna die here. So many sad memories. But no matter what, the happy memories always have a way of overshadowing the sad ones, like my memories of me and Serena dancing and playing with Momma. We used to play under this huge weeping willow in our backyard. It was the strangest-looking tree. The branches and leaves drooped down to the ground and made the perfect hiding place. At one point in the back of the tree the leaves separated like a natural archway. Of course that was where we would enter and exit. The three of us would go under the tree and sip tea from our toy tea set and eat Ritz crackers and cheese or drink milk and eat Chips Ahoy chocolate chip cookies. Right next to our weeping willow was our make-believe wishing well. Momma was so creative that she actually made us believe that it was a real wishing well. Even happy memories make my eyes water because I wanted times like that to last forever. That was one of my biggest wishes back then.

Momma sure was something special. She used to read to us. She read anything and everything from her original poetry about weeping willows and wishing wells to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Gone With the Wind and Roots. She had a subtle way of mixing our cultures together and teaching about who we were without us ever really realizing what she was doing. She’d occasionally slip a couple of white baby dolls in, here and there. Our daddy’s a very dark man and because of his dominant genes, Serena and I look more black then anything. When Daddy was younger, he resembled Wesley Snipes and Momma bore a very close resemblance to Demi Moore. Sometimes it’s hard for me to watch Demi Moore in movies because all I see is Momma. Other times it’s therapeutic. If people didn’t know Momma, then they’d never know that Serena and I were biracial unless we told them. Daddy used to tell us that we could never consider ourselves white. He said that having just one drop of black blood in our systems canceled out our whiteness and made us black in every way. He said it with so much conviction that we believed him. Statements like that confused the heck out of me and Serena. The look on Momma’s face told me that she disagreed with him, but she never voiced her opinion. In a way, Daddy stole her voice, her dreams, and possibly her life.

All I know is that I have dreams and desires that can’t possibly be met here in Eden because I’ve always dreamt of being a hairdresser, beautician, cosmetologist, hairstylist, or whatever they call them. That sounds so silly because I’m not even a hairdresser now, but I’m really good at doing hair. To top that off, I can cook my butt off too. I’d love to own a big-time soul food restaurant like Sylvia’s up in Harlem or somewhere with a bunch of hungry black folks.

I wanna live in a place with busy sidewalks, bright lights, a hot nightlife, skyscrapers, a wide variety of restaurants, and fancy clothing stores. The biggest and best thing we’ve got going here in Eden is Wal-Mart. I’ve always been impressed with big cities like Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York. If I’m ever able to move away from here, then maybe my dreams will come true. Eden is a beautiful place, but its small-town atmosphere isn’t enough for me anymore. It’s way too slow here. I can’t just sit around on my front porch day in and day out like a lot of people here do, smiling and waving at passing cars and watching life go by.

A lot has happened since we lost Momma. Daddy was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. He’s been in prison for twenty-one years now. My God, it doesn’t seem like it’s been that long. Daddy is fifty-two years old. I often wonder if he truly belongs there or if he’s just another victim of southern justice. How could they convict a man without any witnesses or concrete evidence? Only he, Momma, and God know the real answer to that. I tried my best to help him. I told everybody, including his lawyer, about the man I heard in our house the night before Momma was murdered. They discounted everything I said because I never actually saw anyone. I was an eight-year-old, and as far as the prosecution was concerned, I was dreaming. Everyone from our neighbors down to the police department seemed to have something against my daddy.

Flashbacks of my parents arguing and the day I first saw Daddy put his hands on Momma in a threatening way shed some serious doubt on his innocence. He slammed her against their bedroom wall, forcefully grabbed her by both wrists, and then slapped her in the face. If he could hit Momma, then eventually he could kill her. Some times that’s how domestic violence progresses.

It’s the strangest thing, but I used to wonder how Momma felt the day she was murdered. Did she know it was her last day? Made me wonder about her last thoughts. Did she feel afraid and did she think of me and Serena? We never got the chance to say good-bye. If Momma could have spoken to us, what would her last words have been? For a long time I had horrible nightmares of seeing hundreds of tiny maggots crawling all over her naked, pale white skin when she was in that storm drain. That was nothing but the devil trying to pollute my mind with grotesque images. The nightmares finally stopped and then Momma came to me in a realistic dream. I could see her just as plain as day, looking like herself, beautiful and healthy. She told me to stop worrying myself to death because she was doing just fine with all the other angels in heaven. I believed that and all, but I prayed to God that I’d never know the pain Momma felt the day she was murdered.

For years Serena and I visited Daddy in prison, but as time went on, the visits became fewer and farther in between. It’s just that eventually we ran out of things to talk about. More then anything, it became harder and harder staring into the eyes of Momma’s accused murderer. It’s sad, but that’s how I started to think of Daddy. Prison changed him. Maybe it was the environment or just the way he tried so hard to convince us of his innocence. He reminded me of someone who was starting to believe his own lies. The same old routine,time and time again, eventually grew old. Besides, Serena and I have families of our own.

It’s morning, 5:45 A.M. The alarm clock went off about ten minutes ago and I woke up feeling kind of edgy. That feeling has little to do with my past and more to do with my present situation. My husband’s back is to me. His body moves up and down with every breath he takes … inhale … exhale. He lies still, pretending to be asleep, but he’s probably awake, thinking about some of the same issues that are on my mind.

I lie here thinking, Here I go, rise and shine, up and at ‘em. Another start of a new day in my predictable life. My mind gets me going, but my body wants to continue lying here resting for a few more hours. The bad thing is if I don’t get going, nothing will get done around here and that’s the truth. But do I get any credit for what I do? Heck, no!

With my usual pleasant southern accent I say, “Good morning, Craig. It’s time to get up. Rise and shine, sweetie.”

He clears his throat and mumbles, “Uh-huh.”

I gently nudge his shoulder and say, “Time to get moving.”

Craig remains in the same position. “I know. I know.”

“Is that all you have to say? I said good morning to you.”

He mumbles, “Morning.”

I put my hands up to my mouth like a bullhorn and yell, “Wake … up!”

That caught Craig off guard. He turns over toward me and says. “What in the hell is wrong with you? I ain’t sleep. Can’t nobody sleep with all this doggone noise you’re making. You need to get up first, anyway. How ‘bout getting breakfast going—remember breakfast?”

“How can I forget? Don’t worry, I got it coming.” I look up to the ceiling. “Yep, I got it coming.”

A variety of breakfast foods run through my mind like a miniature slideshow. I’m in the mood for something special. I usually like to make omelets when I’m in a good mood. A night of good sex—no, great sex—really makes me crave omelets. Damn, I haven’t had a craving for omelets in a while. Today looks more like overcooked bacon, runny scrambled eggs with burnt toast, bitter coffee, and sour orange juice.

It’s a different day, but it’s still the same old thing as yesterday. I haven’t been happy in a long time and I’m sick of pretending. That’s all I do. My pleasant tone and smile are fake. I even fake orgasms during sex to keep from dying of boredom. Sometimes I wanna scream, “Lord, help me, please!” My life is going nowhere fast. It’s simply at a complete standstill. This can’t be as good as it gets.

I’m a trophy. My older and sometimes wiser husband refers to me as his “beautiful, five-foot-nine-inch, statuesque memento.” Craig used to think it was a big deal having a sexy, young wife, and the fact that I was a virgin when we first met really excited him. Lately it feels like he’s put me on the shelf and I’m doing nothing but collecting dust, layers of dust that are really starting to wear me down. Maybe it’s just me and maybe it isn’t that serious. I do have a tendency to be a little oversensitive.

Before I rise I like to begin each and every day with a small prayer to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. But on the other hand, some evenings I’ve found myself wishing that something bad would happen to Craig and he wouldn’t come home. I’d shout, “Freedom! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Lord, forgive me, but he does irk me. I don’t hate my husband, can’t hate him. I’ve just developed a strong dislike for him.

As I place my bare feet on our cold, hardwood floor, I stand and turn away from Craig, looking out our bedroom window at the morning sky. I’ve probably seen the sunrise a thousand times and each sunrise is different. God has a very distinctive and beautiful way of ushering in the new day. The trees in our backyard hold steady while their branches and leaves sway as a swift spring breeze blows through. The weatherman didn’t call for rain, but I can tell that something strange is brewing.

My family consists of my husband, Craig, the control freak, and our three kids: Craig Jr. age 17, better known as C.J.; Erika age 16; Morgan age 10. Oh, and our family pet, a pretty, light-brown boxer named Chop-chop. Sometimes I hate that dog so much that I wanna kick the dog shit out of her, but I don’t because she’d probably eat me alive. That damn dog howled and cried just about all night last night. I don’t know how true it is, but I’ve heard that that’s a sure sign of death. That notion is something that stuck with me from childhood.

I love my kids. Morgan is my only biological child, but I treat and love C.J. and Erika like my own.

For the most part, C.J. is a nice, quiet boy. He does have his moments when he irritates me. He means well, but sometimes I think he has a touch of attention deficit disorder or something. The child is somewhat delayed and has a tendency to be distant, in a world of his own. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I think either his daddy or his momma must have been drinking real heavy or on drugs when he was conceived. I never thought C.J. would be foolish enough to experiment with drugs, but I was wrong. Drugs are a big problem everywhere, even in a small town like Eden.

Erika is young and restless. Words like impatient, self-centered, sassy, and dramatic as hell probably describe her best. This girl is always bored if she isn’t on the go or tying up our phone line for hours. She’s the type of kid that has to be into something 24/7, no matter what. Erika’s been boy-crazy ever since she broke up with Vernon, this little knucklehead boy from her school. He was tying her down and she felt that she was missing out on other fun things life has to offer. Next thing I knew she. . .